


Getting wet isn't all the fun it's cracked up to be

by taran



Series: Manhandling Without Plot [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: But only a little, Drowning, Drowning warning, Geralt is a little shit, Hunt Gone Wrong, M/M, MWP (Manhandling Without Plot), Whump, what's a little stripping between friends, yall heard it here folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:34:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22674895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taran/pseuds/taran
Summary: Geralt buries his free hand in Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier's breath hitches. With the other, Geralt grips his shoulder tight and-- "No, no, wait!"-- forces him underwater.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Manhandling Without Plot [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626946
Comments: 57
Kudos: 537





	Getting wet isn't all the fun it's cracked up to be

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware, this fic includes someone being dunked/held under water multiple times without time to breathe in between. If reading that could be harmful or distressing for you, please consider skipping out on this fic!

It is a hunt not unlike many others, really. Geralt had told Jaskier to stay back in the tree line. He had even picketed Roach there. Jaskier got the sense that, could he, he would have picketed his bard beside her. Instead, perhaps sensing (or was it sensing when it would merely be remembering every other such situation before?)-- regardless, sensing that Jaskier’s curiosity was already pressing him closer, Geralt had turned, herded him back against Roach’s flank, and grunted, “Watch Roach.” Responsibility thus dispensed, he took his silver sword from her saddle and tromped off towards the lake. Jaskier see-sawed, chafing with indecision. 

Roach is Geralt’s life, is the thing. His potions, his bandages, his supplies and clothes, his means of transport to missions and towns, and yes, his companion and friend. To be tasked with keeping an eye on her was-- it was tantamount to a declaration of trust. Friendship, even! Jaskier might even have been tempted to write a touching ballad about it.

But that was ten minutes ago, and standing at the tree line while a Witcher battles evils unknown just barely within eye-shot is frightfully boring. Roach is a solid, even-tempered mare and quite likely would remain picketed exactly where she is come the end of the world (so long as Geralt put here there), so could Jaskier be considered really necessary as her chaperone? And (from what little he can spy at a distance) the fight is going so well! It looks positively easy! _Roach will be fine. No danger in getting a closer look,_ Jaskier thinks, in the same self-serving way he always thinks _it couldn't hurt_. He knows very little about the thing Geralt had taken the job of killing. The name itself, bludzeuger, is bound to draw audience attention and curiosity. What use is a Witcher’s bard who couldn’t describe his foe to the bated-breath masses? The, the horror, the majesty, the mystery-

Except Jaskier approaches and as he nears Geralt pivots and lands the killing blow on a creature that looks, really, like nothing so much as an oversized slug. One which Geralt quite nearly bisects, as if it weren’t disgusting enough, with all his usual spray of gore and blood. He takes the swinging momentum of the final blow, turns his elbow to reverse its arc, and flings the blood neatly from his sword onto the grass. 

Or, rather, where there would have been grass had Jaskier not been there instead, mouth open to speak because, really, isn't it always? The spray catches Jaskier right across the face and chest. The blood is shockingly hot. He freezes, looks down at his new shot silk doublet strung about with true black velvet banding, now gone dark with steaming blood, and wails,

“Oh, come on!” He plucks the silk away from the fine linen underneath only to find it soaked completely through, plastering the layers together. Uncomfortably viscous blood wobbles for a moment before it drips from his chin onto his chest. His stomach turns. "Ugh!" 

Geralt whips towards his voice and Jaskier freezes.

Geralt had taken two of his potions before the battle. Jaskier had asked many times in their early travels together after the little bottles and flasks Geralt kept so protectively swaddled in that bag of his. To say he was unforthcoming would be the highest caliber of understatement. (And Jaskier is, really, not prone to understatement. Ever.) Geralt is not _chatty_ , but he is quite capable of carrying on a conversation and even answering some of Jaskier's questions when the mood takes him. It is an exhilarating development each time. The two of them, a demijohn (or three) of good quality vodka or Toussaint red, and Geralt's warming tone when he explains the different between a ghoul and an alghoul and how, yes, the knowledge had saved his life in the past.

Of monsters he would dissemble; of the mutations and training to become a Witcher, decidedly less. There had been nights, however. Particular nights, some with bright stars and a fire, some tucked under an ancient tree and its shielding branches from a storm. Geralt never asked him not to write songs about those tales, because Jaskier simply knew. 

The damned potions, though. Over a decade traveling together and he is more than lucky to know a handful of them by sight and function. Even fewer does he know by name. It was one of the unknown decoctions that Geralt had slugged back, a pale green liquid that had no apparent effect for his curiosity to note. The blue of the other was far more familiar, the one Geralt calls Swallow. He had fetched it for Geralt many a time after a battle when the man stumped back to their room or campsite injured, almost knew to grab it the moment he heard boots dragging on the stair. The little blue potion always has a warming effect on Geralt's color. He had seen the man gone paper-white from blood loss and shock take the strange medicine and immediately color up again like a man in the pink of health.

Taken before battle, it has a different effect. Witchers don't flush (can't, as Geralt claims), not in heat or exertion or, stars forbid, embarrassment. But when Geralt jerks about to face him, with high color and bright feverish eyes, it underscores the unsettling wildness settling there.

Normally, Jaskier might expect Geralt to do as he usually does when he gets himself into a state like this. He should twitch that little secret smile, the one he somehow expects Jaskier not to notice but, oh ho, he always does and gives Geralt hell for it. It is not the first and surely won't be the last such misfortunate end to a beautiful jacket.

But here and now Geralt stares at him hard and his nostrils flare. Unease frissons up his spine immediately. Before he can speak, to Jaskier’s utter shock, Geralt unceremoniously drops his sword into the mud. It’s so incongruous-- their swords are a Witcher’s life, Geralt had told him that! Actually used his words to communicate it!-- that he knows immediately that he is in trouble. He drops his doublet back to his chest and points.

“Look, Geralt, Roach is fine. I made sure! I know you said to stay back, b-but-”

But Geralt is a mountain of a man who breaks from still to motion with unnatural speed, and his strides eat the distance between them with sudden voracity. His heart stutters. Up close, his eyes are positively unnerving. Jaskier startles and moves before he quite knows why, stumbling backwards, and his mouth babbles on without him, “Geralt! Geralt, let’s not be hasty, I did as you asked, uh, technically.” Geralt bulls into his space anyway. 

“Jaskier!"

But he’s got too much wind in his sails and a rabbiting heart. “-and I mean, isn’t the state of my clothing punishment enough, really? So let's just-” Jaskier holds his hands up to ward off his imminent throttling. It’s been years since Geralt had even threatened to strike him, but it doesn’t stop the man from, occasionally, being puerile and nasty. So when Geralt goes to grab his arm he jerks and skips back another step with a nervous laugh that bubbles out, "Ooo _oh_ absolutely not." The stuff is in his mouth, in his eyes, tastes absolutely putrid, _surely_ it's just desserts! "Let's just calm down, alright?"

Geralt flashes out two rough hands and grabs him about the upper arms. “Stop talking,” he snaps. "You need to take a breath." He sounds significantly less angry than Jaskier had expected. That, somehow, leaves him open-mouthed and pausing over his next excuse. 

Geralt takes a step back. Then another. With no other choice, Jaskier stumbles after. "Wh-What?" shakes loose out of him. Geralt scowls.

“I said shut your mouth,” he growls, and now he sounds angry as his words grit out: "Now breathe." Jaskier gets exactly one moment to balk, surprised, before Geralt stoops, gets one hand behind his left knee and the other around his waist, heaves him up nearly on to one shoulder-- Jaskier yelps-- and, like he weighs naught, turns and chucks him bodily into the lake.

The pain of the first moment is like hitting hard stone, only for it to surge up and close over his head in an agonizing clap of stabbing, breath-stealing cold. He yells. Lake water rushes in. 

Admittedly, Jaskier is not and has never been a strong swimmer. His preferred forays into the lakes and streams of the Continent have always been in sun-warmed shallows at the height of summer, when the noon sun warms his flanks and curls his hair at his nape and, perhaps, gleams on the freckled shoulders of a lover. He is a creature of comfort and decadence and prefers it that way. If he goes to water, it is to be comforted, to drift and doze. He had passed many a citrine-colored summer in such a manner and planned to pass many more. (The sun-browned look really did suit him, after all.)

This dip is, comparatively, the worst water-based experience of his life. Which perhaps excuses away his immediate, animal panic. The water closes over his head. Like nothing else he has ever experience, the cold squeezes the breath from his chest like a vengeful fist. Jaskier thrashes. His sparking, tingling, shocking limbs feel distant in the dim beneath the surface, feel clumsy. The world narrows to a chaos of white-thrashed water and rushing bubbles and clouds of silt that engulf him and sting his eyes. Dank and gritty water gushes into his mouth, over his teeth, snakes frigid fingers between his skin and clothes. He twists until he can no longer be sure which direction is up and which down. It is the fear that he will never find it which seems to stretch a thousand years between his struggling and one boot heel finding mud beneath him. He sinks both heels into it, hard, as if to be sure its real. Then he bursts upwards.

He breaks into an unforgiving slap of air across his face. He gasps and stands.

He can’t stop a strangled shout as, exposed to the air, his muscles seize up in a full-body shudder. It echoes strangely on the water, which laps nearly at his navel ( _holy gods, he threw me that far?_ ) For a moment, all he can do is heave, coughs turned to great dizzying breaths. It is over his own noise that he hears the telltale jingle of buckles. He whips about towards shore. In doing so, he finds Geralt, shucked of his pauldrons and sword belts. Face set and grim, he splashes into the shallows on a bee line straight for him. Jaskier's shock breaks way for a veritable landslide of emotions. 

“You-- unbelievable ch-child-- absolute _bastard_ ,” he gasps and flicks water impotently from his stupid, ruined, beautiful doublet. He attempts to slog towards shore a step only to stumble on a submerged rock, stagger, and rights with a sharp, "fuck!" because Geralt is, somehow, as quick in water and lake muck as he is on land even though Jaskier can barely keep his feet under him. Jaskier teeters back and wavers, eyes widening. He ends up putting out stopping hands, glaring a warning. Geralt easily maneuvers around them and shoves. Not even; a push, just a tap, yet it sends Jaskier back a step. His heels sink deeper in muck. Frigid water splashes up the small of his back.

"Oh, no. No, fuck you!" Another push, more forceful this time, water up to his ribs. He sputters, "I s-swear-!" 

Geralt doesn't hear what he swears. His hands close on Jaskier's shoulders and with not a word of warning shove him back under the water. Jaskier goes down cursing.

Shock doesn’t pause him, this time. He struggles the moment he goes under, hard. It takes him a moment to find one of the hands caging him but when he does, he claws viciously with string-hardened nails. The hold doesn't even flinch. He gets a hand around Geralt's wrist and, finding that pulling does nothing, he twists. Water burns in his nose. After a moment a burst of savage victory flashes through him when Geralt releases his other shoulder. It is short lived, however, as it is only to pry his hands away, to twist them down. Fighting Geralt is like trying to fight stone-- all of it, all the stone of a mountain with its deep, unmovable roots. He's just so damnably _strong_. In desperation, he strikes out, trying to find something tender, anything- knee, thigh, groin. But the angle is awkward and his blows are weak in the water.

It’s as if he does none of it. All the while Geralt presses, pushes him down. He barely budges an inch when Jaskier shoves all the strength into his legs to stand, grown frantic. 

He hadn’t taken enough breath. The realization electrifies him. He hadn’t gotten more than a few breaths. His lungs burn and where his heart hammers against his chest he can feel a tightness but can’t feel where physical need ends and panic begins. His head buzzes like a cheap fret board on an old instrument. His struggling devolves. He can't seem to control his arms any more. His hands splash and scrabble uselessly at the surface, looking for anything. One hand finds the front of Geralt's armor and he slaps and claws against it, turning fingernails on the studs.

He’s under just long enough for pain and panic to send what little air he has bubbling out of his mouth before the hands holding him down twist in his clothes. Geralt yanks him unceremoniously to his feet. 

The break of air over him is like coming into heaven. Jaskier flails out an arm, feels Geralt jerk him close as he chokes on water and frantic air, and grabs whatever he can. Shoulder, neck, hair, gorget. 

"Jaskier," Geralt says, voice tight.

Jaskier ignores him. The coughing fit that takes him rakes like glass shards up from his chest and sets his eyes watering fiercely. He lifts his hand to rub at them, only to feel hot fingers wrap around that wrist. He flinches back, blinking rapidly. Geralt's face, bleary but animal intense. White hair sticking to flushed cheeks.

“Don’t touch it,” Geralt commands, loud enough he jumps. _Touch what?_ Jaskier wants to know, but before he can ask, he finds Geralt pawing at the closures of his doublet. Geralt gets one hand down his collar and the other between his shoulder and ruined silk and, with a single jerk, pops all the buttons and hooks like they were stitched with spider’s silk. Jaskier manages to swear viciously through a wheeze. Geralt shoves the jacket over his shoulders.

“What are you- Geralt!” He squawks as his arms get caught. With a single-minded focus Geralt works the jacket off of him and slings it towards shore with a snarl. It hits the water's surface with a slap... and promptly sinks. Jaskier spits out the taste of putrid blood and lake water and croaks, “What the fuck are you doing? That was _new_ you-”

A hand seizes him by the back of the neck. With it, Geralt wrenches him forward. He just barely gets his hands up to catch himself against Geralt’s chest.

Their noses nearly brush. “ _Stop. Talking._ " Geralt snarls.

Jaskier does so, immediately. Then the hand on his neck slides to his shoulder, a shocking drag of callouses that has a shudder jittering down his spine because his hand is so _warm_. Another effect of the potion, he thinks muzzily, and tries to breathe. Golden eyes dart across his face, over his forehead, back and forth between his eyes, so close that Jaskier can see each unexpectedly dark eyelash. (Isn't that strange? His brows and lashes are dark where his hair is white.) Geralt's gaze darts down across his lips, parted as he breathes heavily into their shared space. The gaze from so close lands like a physical touch. Jaskier's mouth closes with a snap. He feels a thrill of nerves go through him.

It's just, that. His off kilter, confused, oxygen-starved brain has turned the world glimmering and strange, blurry yet so full of the tiniest details that threaten to swallow him up (like how the color high in Geralt's face makes him look younger, matches the pink in his usually dour mouth but there's nothing dour in him now; makes him look like he draws Jaskier close for a different reason, Jaskier who is old hand at what happens when a blushing paramour draws one's face close-)

-and they are so unprecedentedly close that Jaskier could swear that he feels the post-battle heat pouring off between them. After his unexpected dip, it’s enticing against the chill of his arms, is all. He almost can't help but reach out, tentative hands landing on studded armor, on shirtsleeve. 

Geralt buries his free hand in Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier's breath hitches. With the other, Geralt grips his shoulder tight and-- "No, no, wait!"-- forces him underwater once more. He has sense enough to take a breath before he is submerged with a heady rush of resignation and adrenaline.

It is different, this time. His head had felt dizzy above water; below, it throbs and spins and, deprived of all other senses, these are all that is left to him save his throbbing heart. He jerks weakly. The hand in his hair tightens, just enough for his scalp to burn. He grunts, a flash of bubbles, and reaches up to paw at the offending hand.

For all the power behind the touches, Geralt's hands are gentle. That detail is enough for Jaskier to calm his panic this time, somewhat, though he can’t help pushing for a moment, can't help struggling just a bit. He is meant to be _above water_ , that little animal piece of his snarls, and pushes back. It takes everything he has not to sink his manicured nails into the meat of Geralt's forearm and tear.

As if sensing his temporary acquiescence, the hand in his hair releases and rakes through, hairline to nape, then drags down his face. Gentle but firm hands come around to cup either side of his head. Two thumbs swipe across his closed eyes, once, twice- lashes ghost across leather-- then drag across his cheeks, along his jaw, down his neck into the dip of his collarbone. _Wub-wub, wub-wub,_ beats his heart in his ears. When Geralt then grabs at his chemise and yanks it up, he ducks his head and arms through rather than get tangled in it with only a moment of annoyance. His thoughts feel, somewhat, as murky and unclear as the water around him. They swirl suspended through a grey numb. The cold that had hurt so badly before has gone distant and mild.

Even with the lungs of a singer, however, his breath gets short, fast. Product of a still racing heart. He bubbles. Weakly, he reaches blindly and grabs one of Geralt’s wrists where a palm slides down his sternum and tugs twice. 

He tries to stand. He gets the top of his head above water before Geralt’s palm closes over it and forces him back. Thinking Geralt hadn’t gotten the message, he reaches out and taps at his leg, once or twice. The hand on his shoulder tightens and presses firmly. Fingers slide across his collarbone, down his chest, his stomach. The little discomfort in his lungs becomes a ragged pain. The little taps become frantic slaps, and then, as if his body comes alive again, uncontrolled thrashing. Still Geralt holds him.

Water churns and crashes around them. He scrambles to find purchase, to break free, to _breathe_. He needs air. His lungs burn with it, he needs- is Geralt going to drown him? A flash of disbelief shocks through him. He is! Geralt is going to drown him, he’s going to hold him down there until he had no choice but to breathe in lake water- and why?

His muscles seize up. He draws and convulses.

In that moment Geralt hauls him up sputtering up out of the water. Jaskier immediately pukes a deluge of water until his throat burns with it. Coughing raggedly, he unseeingly feels across Geralt’s front until he finds the neck of his armor and grips it with all his might. His entire arm trembles with the effort. It is the only thing that keeps him on his feet when wave of hacking coughs threatens to upend him. When Geralt catches him under his elbow firmly, however, unbridled fear rockets through him.

“No,” he whimpers. He tows himself closer until his nose brushes Geralt's collar. His is, humiliatingly, trembling. “No more, please, Geralt, please,” he rasps in a shockingly reedy voice. He tries and fails to lift his head. Instead lifts streaming, pleading eyes up at his friend, who stares back transfixed. He feels sure he would have flushed if he could. The sound that escapes on his next breath is pathetic. "Gods," he chokes, back muscles clenching painfully, and if his voice breaks he can blame it on that. He digs his numb fingers into the space above Geralt's armor until he finds warm skin.

Cold. Not trembling, he realizes distantly. He is shivering. As if his recognition gives it permission, the cold of the evening air scours across his bare back like talons. Everything from his forehead down to his navel prickles and tingles unpleasantly in the breeze. When the back of Geralt’s hand brushes his stomach, the sensation intensifies so unpleasantly that he wrests back with a yip. The coughing starts again. Under his hand, Geralt shifts suddenly into motion.

“Jaskier,” he rumbles urgently. His rakes a hand down Jaskier's chest. Jaskier twitches pitifully away from the rough touch with a moan. “Did I get it all? Where does it hurt?”

“Where-?” he coughs up, and tries and fails to bat Geralt’s hand away from his hip where it slides across the thin skin there. He shakes his head feebly. “I don’t understand."

A hand on his chin tips his head back. Blinking water out of his eyes where it drips from his fringe, Jaskier watches through spotty eyes as Geralt as he leans in closer, doing that strange examination again-- eyes, forehead, mouth.

“The blood reacts with air,” Geralt says, turning him one way and then the other, smoothing a thumb behind each ear. The little touches are quite soothing, really. “Starts to burn." 

“ _What?_ ” That would certainly explain the uncomfortable rawness down his front and in his throat. He leans over and spits into the lake again, with feeling, and thumps a weak hand against Geralt’s chest. This time, when his scrabbles for a better handhold on Geralt’s shoulder, it tangles in a few hanks of white hair at his neck. _Try to push me under now,_ he thinks somewhat deliriously and tightens his grip unkindly until hair catches and pulls. He is rewarded immediately by the sharp curl of Geralt's lip.

Unbothered, Geralt slides hands down his bare arms, gauntlets both buttery smooth with age yet rough on oversensitive skin. Jaskier twitches and jerks like a fly-bit horse, gasping half-aborted sounds of protest between complaints. “Rather an important detail to mention- ah- d-don’t you think? You know, considering- _shit_ , considering your plucky companion might, I don’t kn _nn_ ow, accidentally aspirate it-”

“I told you to stay back.”

“You could have said why!” Jaskier cries hoarsely. “It-- no, excuse you, unhand me,” but Geralt doesn’t, simply looms closer and grabs him more firmly by the hair at his nape to tilt his head back. Strung out and a little wild himself, Jaskier fights. Grunting, Geralt tugs even further; Jaskier's hand flies back grab his hand with a gasp, gone up on tip toe against the hold. “If you dunk me again," he pants, glaring. His neck arches as far as it will go-- farther even, taut as a wire so that when he swallows its too loud under the rasp of his breaths. Geralt takes him by the chin. Jaskier grabs him right back. "Don't you dare-” 

and is effectively silenced by Geralt shoving his thumb over Jaskier’s lower teeth. Jaskier whines and squirms. "Stop that," he growls, hands tightening warningly in Jaskier's hair. With a sharp intake of breath, Jaskier considers biting him, just for a moment. When Geralt repeats the motion, however, all he can do is cling to his hand, his wrist, back and neck trembling with effort, straining on his toes. Their chests brush. The position is uncomfortably, poignantly vulnerable.

He _could_ bite. Or lash out a knee; it wouldn't be his first low blow. But on the other side of the urge to escape lies another instinct. He remembers the calm of the breathless cold under the surface, discomfort and fear and trust mixed together. He had floated, just for a minute. He had managed to curb the urge to fight because he trusted Geralt. He remembers that brief peace and stills, relaxing muscle by muscle until only his chest moves with each shuddering breath and Geralt is the only thing holding him up. His vice grip loosens.

Geralt makes-- not a murmur, more a burr of encouragement. Even trying to relax, however, he can't help the way his fingers flex uncomfortably tight as Geralt pulls his mouth open further. He blinks hard. The press of the flat of his thumb to Jaskier's tongue draws a displeased little grunt. Immediately his mouth fills with the taste of leather. Not the most pleasant of tastes, but certainly not the worst. When Geralt presses his jaw just a hair wider to look into his throat, even when it nearly chokes him, he remains painstakingly still (though his breaths clamber out of him fast and strained.) He feels a tear tickle down from the corner of one eye. Jaskier's throat clicks with a swallow.

Whatever he sees must satisfy him. Geralt retracts the offending digit and loosens the hold on his hair slowly, bringing him down onto his feet again. A sigh gusts out of him at the easing. How had he not noticed how tight his chest had become? Carefully, Geralt's hand slides out from under his at the back of his head and presses his arm back down. He could cry with relief as his neck and back straighten.

“How’s your throat?” Geralt asks lowly. He slides a light hand down Jaskier's neck, critical eyes taking in whatever he finds there.

Jaskier does what he hadn't done even with his head wrenched back, and chokes. Even the faint brush over brightly burning skin leaves him gaspingly overwhelmed. His nerves are _raw_ , scraped down, it's the only thing that could feel so _much_. As if realizing the mistake, Geralt freezes where he is, his thumb just pressed into the dip of his clavicle, a holding hand curved around his neck, and alarmed eyes dart up to meet his watering ones. With him no longer moving, the sensation eases enough for Jaskier to choke it an utterly scoured voice, 

“Glad you care about my most important instrument." He clears his throat, winces, and carefully, carefully, pushes the hand away. Geralt watches him closely all the while. "Sore, thank you-- from puking water after you half drowned me, I imagine. And, oh, probably from breathing in burning monster blood of which I was not warned, but otherwise I'm _fine_.”

The wind changes. He hisses in a stuttered breath and instinctively huddles closer; Geralt, as if having the same thought, lifts a shielding arm around his back, putting his own back to the breeze. It’s not enough, of course. Everywhere the blood had touched him stings, brilliantly. When he glances down, he finally takes in the whirls of pinkened skin down his chest and stomach, how it darkened in dips and dabs where blood must have landed first. But then a sharp bloom of pain draws his attention further downward and, _oh_ , that’s _significantly_ worse, what-

“Fuck,” Geralt curses. He shoves a hand in the blood-darkened hem of Jaskier’s trousers. He manages to get his hand between the stained fabric and skin, but Jaskier is already miles ahead of him. He bats him away and tears the ties open himself, knots and bows and _why in the world did he ever choose velvet tape strings_. Geralt reaches behind him and when he has gotten the ties loosened worms a hand down the back of his trousers and begins working them down.

Dignity be damned, Jaskier lets him without protest, too busy fumbling ties and finally tearing them away completely. The streak of fire burns and burns hotter from beneath his belly button down the front of one hip, one thigh, into the crease where they meet--

“Fuck!” Jaskier agrees at a full three octaves higher and promptly dunks himself.

* 

He doesn’t emerge for a solid ten minutes, just to be thorough. By the time he slogs out blue-lipped, shivering, and naked as the day he was born, Geralt already has a fire going. Both of their travel cloaks await him; he moodily tosses his waterlogged boots to the side and wraps up in them in deadly silence, save for chattering teeth.

Geralt opens his mouth.

“How’s-?”

“Not a word,” Jaskier hisses forbiddingly.

(In the end, Jaskier preserves his modesty with a generous fold of cloak and lets Geralt examine the red, angry skin over his thigh front and lower belly. Preciously, the Witcher listens; he says not a word. Jaskier draws the line when he pulls out one of those salves of his, however. 

“Geralt, please leave me what little dignity I have and just… Wait. Is that the salve with stinging nettle? You- godless barbarian, were you even going to mention? Or just slather it on my most delicate parts and watch?” 

Geralt, damn him, laughs. Jaskier howls with outrage.

“ _You irrepentant shitling!_ ”)

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually the first Manhandling Without Plot piece I started writing :') The idea that started it all, though I didn't come back to it to complete it until now. I hope you lot have as much fun reading it as I had writing it! Though, apologies if the pacing/structure isn't as clear and snappy as the last one.
> 
> After this, I've run out of ideas that I've already started plotting out. Have any MWP ideas of your own that you might like to see? Feel free to drop me a line on my tumblr, iamtaran, I'd love to hear them!
> 
> Thanks as always for all the love! Nothing makes me so happy as reading y'all's comments. I'm glad manhandling could just *sniff* could just bring us all together like this.


End file.
